


A Hill to Die On

by BananasAreForParties



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Mara Jade, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mara Jade turns rebel early, Minor Character Death, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27397903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananasAreForParties/pseuds/BananasAreForParties
Summary: The informant CI-L7 is the most high-value confidential informant the rebellion has. Has ever had.She is also a child. A terribly pretty child with old, sharp eyes, no name, and an origin shrouded in mystery. Ens. Honn must uncover her informant's identity if she's to save the girl from herself. (Rebel!Mara Jade AU)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A very special thanks to JediMordSith who graciously gave me valuable feedback and spared me the pain of trying to compose a summary. 
> 
> This was started after I'd seen Rogue One (which I liked) and then The Last Jedi (started so promising, then squandered any and all tepid good will by ditching try/fail cycles or character arcs in favor of experimenting with regressive character development and this is a rant for another time). So this is a fic I've poked at for a few years and now it's 2020 and things are terrible. While I may have had grand aspirations for this fic, I've come to realize that what I have stands on its own, and it's better to put it out into the world than hold on and wallow. I challenged myself by doing something very different with POV and it's totally OK that it's not going to be everyone's cup of tea. And I can accept I might never expand the story beyond what it is--but I always can later. Even so, I think there are those with whom this will resonate with as much as it resonates for me.  
> Please take care of yourselves, and take care of each other. It's a rough world out there, and we all have to choose our battles wisely.

CHAPTER 1

Confidential Informant L7 makes her first drop at the Coruscant District Transit Station 178 to an undercover agent, Ensign Chiri Honn, in the year 4 BBY. Ensign Honn is assigned to accept drops from rebel agents or informants while masquerading as a street vagrant. On this day, she plays the violincello for alms on a dingy street corner.

CI-L7 is nothing like what Ens. Honn has been trained to recognize as an informant. She approaches Ens. Honn in broad daylight. Notably, the dropped message is handwritten. In ink. Genuine ink. On paper. On stationary paper that's crisp, clean, thick. The penmanship is ornate, written in beautiful calligraphic letters and numbers. It's a far cry from data chips Ens. Honn is used to receiving and it’s delivered by so unlikely a character she mistakes it as being nothing more than artful scribbles.

It falls atop the few seed credits in her instrument case and, at first, Ens. Honn does not realize a drop is happening. She maintains her cover.

"Miss," the ensign says to hem of what can only be the dress of a young, wealthy girl. The fine material puts the rebel on her guard and when she looks up, she stops playing. The girl is draped head-to-toe in a fine cloak of midnight blue, clasped at her shoulder by a star of clear stone. The leather gloves match as does the gauze veil. Ens. Honn can discern the shape of a fine, straight nose and high cheek bones beneath. She plucks the paper out of the case, too distracted by the beauty of it to realize it is script. "Young gentle. That's a fine drawing, but I cannot eat paper."

The child (Honn can be forgiven for mistaking CI-7's age for 9 or 10; the child is small for a human of 13) raises her heart-shaped chin and replies: "If not, you will eat blast-bolts."

CI-L7 walks away.

Were it an adult, had it been a data card thrown in her case or a holo-message or had any of it not been a waking fever-dream of some surrealist teetering into delirium, Honn could have realized the Contact Station's cover was blown, that this was a warning and the child their tip-off. A tip-off that knew too much, that ought to be brought in, interrogated, or silenced given the precarious state of the rebel intelligence network. It takes a solid few minutes for her to stop being mesmerized by the elaborate penmanship and recognize that the string of numbers and letters have a title: District 178. One week standard. Raid immanent.

As with many things in life, it makes sense in retrospect. The code is the encrypt for District 178's Imperial police band and it's absurd that it takes a whole two days for anyone to get over the breach of protocol (who loses a child in fancy dress in broad daylight?) to consider its validity.

Handily for the rebel cryptographers, the police force in District 178 isn’t shy about discussing the big crackdown they’re planning planet-wide over their presumed ultra-secure encrypt network. By the time the police and Stormtroopers come knocking, they discover no more than smoke and dust. The Coruscant 178 rebel intelligence team is relocated along with all the others. Safe and sound.

It's another year before CI-L7 makes her second appearance.

This time, Lieutenant Honn has cleaned up her disguise a bit, busking with a permit outside the privet transport hub in the Third District as a regular beggar, occasionally playing with a chamber orchestra to solidify her cover.

L7 wears a cloak of matte white. It’s trimmed in embroidered, red-gold flowers that match the hair hidden under her scarf. It, the hair, is momentarily visible when she draws the scarf covering her face down to speak. A strand catches on the corner of her mouth.

"Have you developed a taste for paper, Violincellist?"

Lt. Honn is glad she is both seated and her old-fashioned micro cam is on as L7 makes her drop.

"Force bless you, m'lady."

Prim, L7 does not reply. She covers her mouth with the scarf and disappears back into the wealthy line of pedestrians.

(It will take years, but it's this image of L7's face—specifically the slight-but-distinct pattern of freckles across her nose--that will enable them to make a positive ID.)

This time, the message warns of not one, but three different raids on rebel targets off-planet. The rebels are not well organized enough or trusting of sub-factions (or the word of a child) for the enormity of the evacuation. Word only reaches two outposts with enough time to mobilize. Even so, forty-two ships and no less than three hundred rebels avoid what would've been total disaster.

When next L7 makes contact, Lt. Honn barely recognizes the drop as it is made. L7 passes by at night in standard plainclothes, her distinctive hair wrapped in a black headscarf. While the clothes may not keep to her usual character, L7 still drops a slip of paper, still handwritten in pen. Lt. Honn has studied every nuance of every image they've captured, as if the informant were her own. She'd known those green eyes anywhere.

Without pause in the song she is playing, Lt. Honn says, "M'lady, Elle Seven."

The girl's back goes ramrod straight, but she says nothing. Keeps walking.

The calligraphic script is smaller than usual. Very small. It's Imperial officer codes. Good codes into the archives. Into the DNA database. Into the image recognition and ident central offices. The real gold nuggets are the judiciary accounts.

Intelligence has a field day scrubbing and creating inscrutable fake idents for their operatives and smoothing over a thousand unforeseen bumps in the road with Imperials none the wiser.

In that instant, L7 is the most high-value confidential informant the rebellion has. Has ever had. It means everything about her must be reevaluated. Lt. Honn is questioned. Again. Interrogated, really. Their best guess is that L7 is a precocious pre-teen of a high-ranking Imperial officer. Based on the type of intel she turned over, their best guess is her parent are embedded in Imperial intelligence. The matter of how L7 managed to cipher Lt. Honn's cover years ago remains, and how she is keeping up with rebel cell movement if the regular Imperials are truly oblivious. If there is a leak from within. No doubt, the girl knows more than she has passed on to the rebels; that's the way of things when an informant is not directed or directly under their control.

What's more, one brave child may have saved and concealed every rebel cell on Coruscant, but all it would take is one frightened child to bring the whole of the Rebellion down.

Lt. Honn is stiffly packing her instrument into its case when L7 stops. Plainclothes again.

"Did we break your ankle or did they?"

Lt. Honn gives a calm reply. "You have to give them something personal if you want to be trusted. Name's a good start."

Those eyes: L7's are sharp. Aged. She lacks a child's wide-eyed stare. Lacks fear. The lieutenant wonders how she has not noticed.

"I don't have a name," L7 replies.

"Your parents are Imperials?" Lt. Honn continues to lead the conversation.

"We're all Imperials."

Honn can hear the chatter and movement through her earpiece. "You have to tell us who you are, Elle. You're not helping yourself."

"Then don't ask stupid questions. I'm not who, I'm a what. I'm decorative froth and nothing. You, Lieutenant, have a name and rank and will go on being real long after I'm gone." L7 hands over a slip of paper.

With care, Lt. Honn asks, "Are you in danger, Miss?" as she accepts the missive by hand.

"You mean to ask me if you're in danger. You rebels have no need to be frightened of me. I will never endanger your cause."

"Your life may be in grave danger."

L7's laugh is sharp, without mirth, without youth. "You don't say?" Her insincerity turns to ice, burning. "I will age out; we all age out. I've a few more years, more than most. Perks of being the favorite. But I've known for some years I was never intended to live too long." Then, with barely a pause for Lt. Honn's response, she adds, "I take it yours are about a block away? They won't catch me."

There is no sighting of L7 for quite some time. She stops making drops in person and instead performs reverse sleight of hand on a few of Lt. Honn's underlings. The information is good, though all it amounts to is several good targets to rob for supplies and weapons. That comprises the next three drops.

All is quiet for four months after. Captain Honn is placed in charge of the cell closest to the Imperial Palace. It's bizarrely quiet until L7 appears at her side from thin air.

"Your location is blown, but not the idents for you, Nonny, and Rillaexophan."

Cpt. Honn does not hesitate to act. Everyone makes it to a safe house. They scout locations a few weeks later for the transfer of operations and end up choosing an old, echoing, creepy-as-Honn-has-ever-seen former toy factory.

L7 appears within ten minutes of the first equipment being placed. Honn can tell this is not one of her usual well plotted drops but a rushed, unplanned appearance. The cloak wrapped about the girl's body is plain enough, but the black, soft-soled ballroom shoes and pale green shimmersilk bunches about her ankles like a closed bud ready to flower. The whole of the team sees her, stunned, as though a mystical creature they've only heard about in fairytales has apparated before them. "I thought you'd be smart enough to reset your kriffing frequency. Get out!"

They barely make it. They should not have made it to their last option--the last safe house--because it's ten districts down, but they do.

Frequency ditched and new encrypt established, one of the caf-guzzling, young enlisted men says, "Her profile says she's usually covered head to toe."

"Usually," Honn says. "And she was, mostly."

"Yeah, but." He hesitates, like he's still speaking of the myth. "Don't mistake me for giving a personal opinion 'cause she's too young, but she's awful pretty, isn't she?"

It's the way he says awful with worry. Awful. Terrible. Horribly pretty.

Honn sleeps on it, wresting with what scraps L7 has imparted to her. No name. Froth and nothing. Age out. Chiri Honn sleeps fitfully, resting on a cot in the old conservatory that is their new base. In the morning, she passes along her hunch to Intel.

"She won't exist in name or paper, at least not in a way that would stand out to anyone who runs a search by the usual means. But images don't lie. Altered footage always has a tell. We can use that."

"The images we have for comparison are old," says the intel officer over the comm. "It'll take months to compile data from the Palace before we'll have anything to run it against."

"If you lot have better leads, by all means."

"Or you could save us all a load of trouble and bring her in."

"Is that an order?" Lt. Honn challenges.

There's a long pause. No doubt someone pushed the mute button and is arguing about what to do about the problem of L7.

Finally, the comm cracks with static. "No. She can keep pilfering Daddy's writing desk."

"Understood." Lt. Honn has no desire to kidnap an adolescent much less silence a child who has saved her own life twice. And the intel has been invaluable to the cause.

It's a relief when L7 returns to hand-delivering her notes with frequency.

"I have better excuses for being out at night and more information to give," L7 explains when the captain asks. The jet black beads of her veil and gown glitter under the streetlights.

Captain Honn believes her. L7 has always had perfect poise, perfect balance. She has grown in strength and build and it's no longer appropriate to call her a child. Not unlike the young soldiers in their ever-expanding, ever materializing rebel cells.

Not unlike a dancer Capt. Honn's thoughts supply. With pity, she says, "If you ever require aid—"

"There will be none. Don't condescend to me."

"—you will inform me in a timely fashion."

"Do allow me to make myself clear. I come to aid you." And, in case Capt. Honn were especially dimwitted, "We're of more use to others than ourselves. In that regard we're alike, you and I. Your problem is that your rebel leaders are uncoordinated, their goals at odds, rife with infighting and fear. They're unwilling to make the necessary sacrifices to turn this into an outright war. Until then, you can be of no help to me."

"Is that why you've chosen to deliver to our cell? To me?"

"You play violincello, do you not?" It's a rhetorical question, for they both know the answer. "It is my favorite. There's a type who choose to play an instrument with little hope for the glory of a solo. You see." Capt Honn does not. "The Governors rely on rebel divisiveness. Pettiness broke the Republic. I'll keep up my deliveries, Captain, but your little rebel groups cannot go on like this. Something's coming. I can feel it. I hear the whispers. Death has always been by my side, but the way it’s closing in. . .do you ever feel it too, Captain?"

"You're rattling my chain, young lady."

She hears the smile behind L7's, "Ah. Then it's for me."

*****

Jedha, Alderaan, the Death Star and its destruction, and the formal formation of the Rebel Alliance happen in about the span of a standard 5-day week.

Fourteen of the thirty-seven cells on Coruscant are uprooted for their own safety. The Imperials manage to raid five of their locations. Those of the Conservatory Cell remain unscathed, and owe it to their own diligence, luck, and small informant.

Captain Honn believes L7—Elle as they have started calling her—has their back.

Weeks later, there has been no word from the ident investigation, nor sighting of the useful informant herself. With the Alliance solidified and its offensive capabilities at hand, Capt. Honn's commander is no longer content to let the information flow in with the tides or the whims of a teenage girl. They are a proper army with proper ranks, not a whisper campaign.

Captain Honn buys new strings and has her bow re-haired. She dresses in her orchestral whites that are a bit too tight and sits at the transport station, busking.

When the sun is high and the durracrete reflects its glossy sheen, a child draped head-to-toe in beautiful caramel and brown gauze breaks away from the regular commuters to toss a slip of paper into the case.

Struggling to maintain any semblance of her cover, Capt. Honn asks, "Miss, where is Elle Seven?"

"Ill," the child replies, "and aged out, near enough."

The captain stops playing.

The child says, "She told us our fate, we know it now, as she knew hers. Maybe the next girl. . .one of us must get out. We know better than to hope for ourselves."

A minder in the distance watches the girl return, voice sharpened to a scold. Captain Honn pretends not to notice. This one isn't as careful as L7. She'll be caught, if she hasn't been. Honn moves fast. Doubles back, can see no tail. Hides out in a safe house only as long as she dares. She can't let the intelligence in the note go to waste considering the life it likely cost.

They are able to coordinate a raid and hit six Imperial armories at once. The bitter-sweet supplies are desperately needed to keep the momentum going, arming the influx of recruits volunteering with zeal.

Capt. Honn makes her report and says prayers for the dead. Were L7 a proper rebel agent, she'd have had a full memorial service, with honors for all the lives she saved, and have her name added to the list of fallen soldiers. As it stands, the Conservatory Cell holds a memorial for her.

They burn the paper missives, the data long past transformed to digital text.

It's a little awkward when L7 makes a drop days later.

Capt Honn was out, returning to the conservatory with boxes of instant-caff and about falls off her speeder. "We thought you were dead."  
"I was ill." L7's voice is raw and rough, like from a bad flu or cold, the way holovids portrayed sickness in ancient times, when people still got sick from such nonsense.

Like from endless screaming.

"Don't you lie to me, young lady. Ill my ass."

"I was electrocuted."

Well. She’d asked for no lies. "Are we compromised?"

"No."

"You sure? I've got some pills to cure that ill." Captain Honn is only half-joking.

L7 laughs. Honn has never heard her laugh before. The sore throat makes it rough, but it's genuine. "Yes, I understand you. But they can't find an ID match of your face. They never will, but don't ever busk again."

Captain Honn grits her teeth. Does not berate L7 for sending the other girl, the uncareful one, the one she knows has been caught. "Don't ever send me another child."

"Not your choice, Captain," L7 chides. "Do your superiors agree?"

She doubts Alliance intelligence will turn its nose up at another source like L7, regardless of age.

"No. I imagine they will listen to whomever follows me. They had better, Captain."

"Because you're aging out," Capt. Honn tries.

L7 hands over her slip of paper, folded. "I'll have a few more runs left in me."

"If we do not meet again, it has been an honor."

L7 stills, but says nothing. She leaves.

When Captain Honn returns, she clamors down triumphant into the basement, victorious with caff and displaying the signature L7 drop paper. She expects a happy uproar.

The room falls silent. Nonny falls out of her chair. Everyone looks like they've been punched in the heart.

"Don't everyone celebrate at once."

"Alive?" asks Rillaxeonphan

Capt. Honn doesn't like this. "What's going on?"

He grasps her by the shoulders, seating her before the intelligence bulletin.

She reads it. Twice, heart sinking level by level to the depths.

"I let her go," she breathes.

"We've been letting her go," Nonny corrects.

"She told me she'd been electrocuted. They must have—"

"They tortured her for information. Our cover is blown," says Rillaxeonphan.

"Our cover is not blown!" Captain Honn knows this, knows it to the marrow of her bones. This confirms L7 is no petty, thieving child larking on her parents. L7 has been scorned and will burn all who've wronged her to dust. "Vengeance doesn't break. Vengeance's only friends are Patience and Wrath. Get intelligence on the comm."

"At this hour?"

"I'm aware of the problem with chatter. This? They'll want to know now." Capt. Honn wants them to know, now. Heavily, she adds, "They'll want an extraction."

Everyone else grows uneasy. "Are you sure, Ma'am?"

"If we're not going to rescue her, Nonny, what's the Force-damned point of us?" Agreement hardens their faces. "And this'll be as close as I'll get to punching the Emperor in the nuts."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 

Extraction will be costly and thus is argued in laborious detail, but in the end greenlit. It requires a roster change and the removal of all non-essential personnel, equipment, and personal effects down to her orchestral whites and violincello. If extraction is to be done, it is to be executed flawlessly. This is difficult when L7--Lianna, _Lianna_ \--has no set meeting time and is rather unpredictable in her drops. They play the waiting game, which at least is enough to get affairs in order and to drill and to lay traps. They wait. One may suppose time could weaken moral, but righteous anger is remarkable for holding ones resolve. 

At two weeks, the watch is alerted by frantic pounding on the door. It's agony to hear. 

"Get out, you imbeciles. Captain Honn? Are you in there?" 

"Get in here," Captain Honn drags Lianna in, the detail barring the door behind them. The poor girl has an injured leg. "What's happened to you?" 

"I can't slip you messages when you're kriffing holed in!" she exclaims in anger. "You've got to get your cell out, and the 312th and the 1470." 

Ens. Copper is already calling it in, so she need not scream orders to evacuate the other two district cells. Honn hopes and prays they make it in time, as their evacuation is not part of the plan for today. 

"Give me a blaster," Lianna demands. 

Honn scoffs, escorting her to the basement stairs. "Goodness, no." 

"I am compromised, Captain. They know. I was sighted on the way out." 

Capt. Honn signals Nonny to call in the extraction. "I see they did not contain what they caught." 

Lianna is noting the gaps where equipment used to be. "I can handle a few stormtroopers." 

"Your leg?" 

"Well, there were six," she says irritably, then raising her voice to the whole of the room. "Did no one hear me? You're kriffing prepared, are you not listening to me?" Upon no one reacting with anything other than calm preparation, she realizes. "You're not. You're not leaving." 

Nonny grabs axes to tend to the last of the pre-stripped equipment. 

Lianna rounds on Captain Honn, "You!" 

"You will be sent with Devlinn and—" 

"You've been planning this!" She is as appalled and outraged as if she has been betrayed. 

"— Jourland will fly you to Alliance Command." 

"Fools, I cannot be brought to Alliance Command!" Her pale face has turned red. She is every ounce the indignant teenager she is, after all. Devlinn and Jourland each take one of her arms to drag her down into the basement and it’s clear the girl is torn about fighting them. She changes tactics. "This is suicide. Give me a blaster. It's me they want." 

Her demands teeter out as all of Honn's rebels fall into their holdout positions. 

Captain Honn nods to Lianna. “We are counting on it.” 

Someone says, "They're past the first marker." 

"Set them up," Captain Honn orders, readying the first trap. 

Lianna ceases this line of protest for none of the soldiers flinch and all are holding their weapons with eyes wide open to the outcome. "Please," she says, "The other girls, they're babies. If he knows I went to you willingly and if he knows I am with the rebels he will kill them to spite me. He'll kill all of them."

It's a piteous plea everyone knows is genuine. Captain Honn knows Lianna has acted upon a singular fantasy of _some other girl_. Some other girl would not suffer Lianna's fate, some other girl shall be freed. None other would suffer after her death and all she has done was toward such a righteous end. Lianna intended to die for her cause and as any good soldier, or petulant teen, is quite put-out she won’t have her way. 

Captain Honn sees no point in rehashing their last argument over L8. Lianna's actions put the other girls in as much risk of death as it held their hope for salvation. "L8 imparted to me the importance that _one_ of you must get out." 

Lianna spits. "I came here to save them, not soak in pity. To help you be rid of him." 

"Quite." Captain Honn dismisses Devlinn and Jourland to take the girl away. "I'm sorry. I trust you will make it worth our while." 

They muscle her down the stairs; if her leg were not broken, if she had not already relinquished her arms in her attempt to persuade them by being compliant and plaintive, she may have been able to put up a better fight. As it is, the very walls tremble with her temper while she curses out everyone and everything. 

"Nonny, I do believe we can blow trap one." 

"Blowing trap one." 

It's a distant rumble, masked by the hiss of welding below. Jourland always had a knack for it. All else is uneasy silence. No one likes to think of the other repercussions, but Honn knows they're no more responsible for the Emperor's depravity than his cruelty. 

"You all heard her," Captain Honn says. "I want ten of them for every one of us. A hundred of them for one." 

No one is leaving, of course. Circumstances dictate that none of them can be taken alive. 

The Imperials play into their hands. They did not expect this much trouble to amount from one of the Emperor's playthings. Honn fancies none of them want to be the one to go before the Emperor to explain they had to resort to final measures. This means the first wave of troopers is summarily slaughtered. Even so, the Imperials remain terribly reluctant to bomb the girl into oblivion, though that's precisely the measure they mean to provoke.

The Imperials are not to know she's spirited away. They're hoping there's nothing remaining, hoping that if nothing else, tiny Calli can be mistaken for a 16-year-old after enough fire. 

Reluctance makes it last hours. Outrageously long; Honn spots trash holodrones catching as much footage at they dare. The gossip and cover-up are liable to be amazing, however it's spun, but it may rage beyond even the propaganda machine. It's long enough to learn the other two cell's agents did, as a matter of fact, make it out though the equipment does have to be axed before the end. 

Honn does make them pay, and pay, and pay. It's piece of mind to know deep down, to her bones, Lianna, who knows only Patience and Wrath, will exact a price very dear. 

*** 

Mon Mothma knows better than to permit _what ifs_ to plague her mind when she has the chance to sleep. The choice to go through with the extraction has been made and the responsibility is ultimately laid at her feet. All choices are. The operation is underway. Her part is over and there's nothing more to be done than to take what sleep she can get before the next crisis strikes. 

The past few weeks have been fraught with delicate operations. Evacuations. Overhauls. Erecting one temporary base only to be forced to abandon it for another. The largest ships in the fleet hide by floating through dead space or orbiting unmapped, uninhabitable planetoids swarming with scavengers or smugglers. With the afterglow of the Death Star's destruction fading under the enormity of the task of unifying the Rebel front, it seems few are happy with her. Requisitions warns of fuel and food shortages if talks with separatists in the outer rim don't go exceedingly well. Crackdowns on several worlds have caused them to lose a several key of intelligence hubs and they've dire need to confirm viable new safehouses, especially with the influx of interested fresh recruits. Even their lone, sorely overworked archivist couldn't help but openly bemoan the shame of leaving priceless artifacts behind as they fled Yavin. Mon Mothma knows this airing of grievances is merely a collective coming to terms with the enormity of the task they face. In this she must join them. There's no further aid she can render to the intelligence operation she greenlit. It will either be a tragedy with redeeming, precious intelligence data they sorely need amid the Imperial crackdown and (possibly) propaganda fodder or a tragedy outright. 

No. She'll not be sleeping this cycle. It's just as well when the com chirps to reveal Daven, looking as sore and crossed as she's ever seen him. 

"Pardon waking you up, Ma'am," he says, his voice betraying none of his irritation. 

"Merely resting my eyes. I take it you've news." 

"CI-L7 is in custody and the safehouse is holding, believe it or not." The fact gives Mom Mothma little consolation. "But Jourland has sent a missive that they cannot rendezvous as planned and is requesting to avoid any and all base locations. The CI claims the Emperor himself can track her with—" and here, Draven affects an Imperial accent, "'Methods beyond our discerning' and demanded to speak with 'whomever the consequences of today will fall.' I'd say it were all childish nonsense, but Jourland sent this image of what she carried." 

Draven sends her an unmistakable still image. It's a lightsaber. "You've dealt with Jedi. Is there any chance the child isn’t lying?" 

Mon Mothma can claim no insight into the Force, nor does she understand of the abilities of the Jedi she met in her younger days. But instinct has always served her well, and she feels the sinking sensation in her guts, the surety that she is now balanced upon a blade where one false step will render the operation a total and utter disaster. 

"We don't have many secure locations that match what she asks. What does she need?" 

***** 

The only location that meets L7's requirements of her secure containment at a location that will not endanger the Rebellion any more than it already has and a place they can discuss...whatever it is L7 is demanding audience for, is Yavin 4. Yavin 4, currently orbited by dangerous debris and long due to be overrun by Imperials the moment they can manage to triangulate the precise location the Death Star was destroyed. Tarkin's arrogance and desire to be the sole destroyer of the Rebel base meant that he did not signal backup to the rest of the Imperil fleet. Their last known coordinates have Imperials closing in, but his precise coordinates were not disseminated. It allowed the Alliance an orderly evacuation and has preserved and protected the emptied ruins so far. Draven baulks at Mon Mothma's immediate concession to the location and outright argues when she agrees to go in person. 

Maybe lack of sleep addled her wits. She does question herself as she preps to leave, alerting her staff to the change, dismissing the poor archivist while they are in the midst of takeoff because no, this is not a chance to retrieve just a few more artifacts and supplies. Her retinue of guards offer no hint of fear or perturbation at this strange assignment as their fast shuttle lands at the abandoned airfield, empty save the other, smaller stolen transport. The passengers have already disembarked; Jourland had sent them an update that they’d brought the girl they rescued to the holding cells per her own request. 

Mon Mothma ceases second guessing her decision when, from the opposite side of one-way transparasteel, the girl meets her eye-to-eye. 

"She asked us to restrain her," Jourland says, visibly uncomfortable about the cuffs that link their charge to the table in the other room. "She says she isn't safe. I don't think she's." Jourland taps the side of his head. 

"Precautionary measures are worth the trouble. I'll see her now. I understand we are pressed for time." 

Mon Mothma steps into the brightly lit, barren cell. It's deep under the ancient temple, the walls stone and worn. Clean, yes, but there's no hiding the age nor the ancient reliefs on the ceiling. The girl's eyes are green stone and reserved thunder. 

"Welcome Lianna. I am—" 

"Mon Mothma, am I given to believe you authorized the surface operation underway on Coruscant resulting in my extraction?" 

Mon Mothma is well practiced in relaxing every muscle of her body when animal instinct wishes them to tense. "I heard Captain Honn's proposal and approved it personally." 

The eyes narrow. "Were you aware it will result in the deaths of all agents on the surface?" 

Mon Mothma feels a tightening of her throat. "Captain Honn was good enough to impart the full consequences to myself and all who've participated are vetted volunteers. I am sor—" 

"No. < i> I am sorry. You've very little choice but to execute me. Inevitably word will reach the Emperor that I was the one his troopers followed to the Rebel strong house—and do believe me, he's not yet had that word. Because when he has that word, he will make contact with me. When he has a hold of me, I will be under his direct power. I will kill you all. The time when I could render you aid is over and your soldiers have died for naught." 

Mon Mothma shakes out her sleeves, pulls out the chair opposite the girl and sits. "Lianna." 

"Do you think finding out that name is clever? You've uncovered one false identify as a courtesan dancer. Repeating it does nothing to endear you to me." 

Lianna –whomever she may be— curls her lip. It's an unsettling sneer on a girl who appears so young. 

"What salutation is your preference?" 

She sinks into her frown. "Are you deaf? Do you not hear? I am the Emperor's Hand, an extension of his will. Momentarily he will know his grasp of me is lost and will assume direct control over my body." 

"Through the Force?" Mon Mothma inquires. 

“Yes!" she affirms, as though Mon Mothma is especially dense. "It's best if you find a way to neutralize me or this will not end well for any of us when the time comes." 

"You had your lightsaber. Why demand my audience and not neutralize yourself?" 

"You're the one responsible for their pointless deaths. I'd at least have the satisfaction of delivering the news; you ought to be ashamed." 

It's then that serene serendipity enlightens Mon Mothma. She rises from her seat. "If you will excuse me a moment." 

The girl's nostrils flair at Mon Mothma's abrupt departure, but makes no remark. 

At the sound of the hydraulic compress of the door shutting, she says to her first officer, "Get me the archivist." 

Like unto a Mon Calimari underwater ballet, what ought to be chaos comes together in harmonious orchestration. The old archivist left everything neatly organized and labeled, so the guard walks in and out of storage effortlessly. That this particular device should have been one of the many recovered from this site after decades of disuse or that it should work is remarkable unto itself. 

“I would like to offer you an alternative.” Mon Mothma holds up the collar as she enters, wasting no time. They have little time. “Do you know what this is?” 

The girl narrows her eyes at Mothma first, then the collar. “No.” 

“The archivist tells me it is a relic of the time this was a temple. Not a Jedi temple. Something else, but Force users who must have had occasion to restrain a Jedi. It’s said they used this to block the Force. Or dull it.” 

The girl is transfixed by silence for a time. It’s farfetched. “Does it work?” 

“It has a charge. We can find out.” 

“Is there a combination?” 

“You may set it, of course.” Mon Mothma slides it across the table and as soon as it is within reach of the girl’s manacled hands, she is setting the code. “I trust you may need—” 

Without hesitation, she snaps it shut, locking it around her neck. A shock runs through her body sending her back, then tipping out of her chair. Mon Mothma rounds the table because she didn’t think the collar might hurt the girl. At least the manacles chaining her table prevent her from hitting her head. 

“Quiet,” the girl groans through pain. When Mon Mothma tries to help her retake her seat, she notices the girl’s leg is bound with a brace and wrappings. It’s an injury she had not been notified of, nor had she been observant enough to see beneath the table. With the help of guards who rush in, they lift her back into the chair. In shock, she yet mutters, “Quiet, quiet. So quiet. And empty.” 

Eventually the mutterings stop. The girl blinks rapidly and, after several deep breaths she centers herself. 

Softly, Mon Mothma says, “I do not wish to harm you, nor make matters worse. We can take it off.” 

“No,” her voice cracks. “It is done.” 

The girl examines her hands; first the back, then the palms, as if seeing them for the first time—or checking to see if they are, indeed the same. Then, very carefully checks the metal collar. 

Mon Mothma waves the guards away. “Do you need a moment?” 

“No. I. Where he was before, I feel nothing.” She blinks as if she could wake herself again, then, “It’s not safe here.” 

“If you are able we will leave at once. May I?” Mon Mothma gestures to the manacles. 

The girl nods, and Mon Mothma detaches the manacles from the table but before she can remove them entirely, the girl draws them away, cradling them to her chest. “Not yet.” 

“Certainly.” 

Their entire conversation was observed, so in rolls her aid with a repulsorlift stretcher. Mothma helps her walk with a stiff limp, to be seated and lie down. Mothma’s aid covers the girl with a blanket and begins inputting the parameters and vitals it’s meant to take of the girl. 

“Bring me a data pad,” the girl says. 

“Something secure, if you’d be so good Tolly,” Mothma commands. He runs ahead and brings back a beat-up spare. 

“It’s secure as can be under the circumstances,” he says, handing it over to the girl. 

In spite of her manacles, she immediately begins work. Without looking up from her screen, she says, “You show a remarkable amount of trust in someone you don’t know and recently declared herself puppeteered by your enemy.” 

“It is not blind. Trust is earned. You’ve been behind enemy lines, feeding us vital intel for three years. Many of our operations would have been all but impossible but for your aid. You’ve given up the world you’ve known. That earns you a measure of my trust.” 

“I do none of this for you. I care nothing for grand pollical intrigue or war or idealistic crusades.” Her fingers pause. “I wanted to spite him. I wanted to spirit all the Hands away, beyond his reach. To dismantle his iron throne and let it crush him. Your little operation has ruined whatever chance there may ever have been to get the other Hands to safety. They’ll be dead or worse by the end of the hour which has soured my opinion of you, Chancellor, and the ham-fisted methodology of this little rebellion. It is my misfortune you’re still the best chance of obtaining my ultimate goal. I care for nothing else. I want him dead.” 

“I understand the predicament,” Mon Mothma replies, letting the argument go until they are safely aboard her chancellor ship, with med droids tending to the leg injury as the girl works. Typically, Mon Mothma would leave the droids to their work, but there are certain privileges that come with her rank and status, one being that no one, not even med droids, ask her to leave. “Do you imagine the ramifications of our actions were not at the forefront of Capt. Honn’s mind when she made her proposal?” 

Gaze askance, the girl narrows her eyes as Mothma seats herself next to the medic bed. 

“Do you imagine someone else made the proposal? Would have?” 

Even with the opportunity to reply, she does not. Waiting. She’s trained for interrogations. Mothma continues under this assumption. “We run an Alliance founded on idealistic optimism with the goal of freeing the lives of all sentients from Imperial oppression. We do no not undertake any operation that will guarantee the deaths of operatives lightly. Not without analyzing the cost, not when our numbers are too few. Those of Capt. Honn’s caliber are few and far between. You brought up our reasoning succinctly. A direct extraction would incite the Emperor’s wrath. Were you to defect in any obvious way, or even vanish under suspicious circumstances, we foresaw unwanted outcomes. The deaths of any number of your young compatriots, yes, but also your supply of valuable codes and intel would be lost to the inevitable abundance of caution and purge of data. Thus, this operation took shape. We make it appear Rebels set and ensnared you and countless others in a death trap. A tragedy and an intelligence oversight, with adjustments to be made but nothing to result in a complete operational overhaul. Nor the deaths of your fellows. I’m afraid we made our plans without knowledge of your. . .connection. Had we known, perhaps we would have thought better than to lose five. Risk the other girls, risk losing you.” 

She says nothing, fingers resting on her data pad. 

Mon Mothma takes a deep breath. “I know you’d never have said half the things you did if you didn’t believe you were about to die. Or kill us all. Nor will I do you the disservice of empty platitudes for what aiding us has cost you or,” Mothma mimics the touch to her own throat, “whatever that collar has done to you. Really, it doesn’t have to—” 

“It cannot be taken off. He will know, wherever I am. No matter how clever the deception you’ve devised, he will never stop looking for me, not even if they think they have a body, even if your elaborate plan dupes them. He won’t trust I’m dead without the corpse under his own hands.” 

“To get to you he would have to stop the whole of the Alliance,” Mon Mothma says. 

The light in her eyes grows sharp. Mon Mothma gentles her voice. “You’re not a lone operative anymore. Welcome to the Alliance. It was very rude of me to neglect the appropriate introductions. I am Mon Mothma, Chancellor and Commander-in-Chief of the Rebel Alliance. And you?” 

Her mouth shapes the half-formed words before she cuts them off. “Mara Jade. My role as Hand necessitated the use of a number of aliases, though I could not tell you what name I was born under.” 

Mon Mothma can feel the tick in her lip jump. “A name of your choosing will do. Mara Jade or any other. Captain Honn and the others referred to you as Elle, for your designation as a confidential informant, CI- L7. Will that suffice for now?” 

Stunned by the revelation she had been given a name, the girl is suddenly so small, so young. 

They all are, and it makes Mothma feel every second of it passing. 

“About what age are you, Elle?” 

There it is again, the heartbreaking little hitch of uncertainty. “Seventeen.” 

They suspected she was several years younger. She could be small by nature. If she has been a captive or not given the proper nutrients or under constant stress, that could be reason enough for her to be small for her age. 

Every time she thinks she’s reached the bottom, there’s a knock from bellow. 

“Is there any possibility you have family we may return you to?” 

“Return me?” Elle asks, taking offense. 

Mon Mothma holds up a hand. “Let me make my meaning clear. You're not in the Empire anymore. We don’t kidnap children. Remove them from abusive, narcistic, megalomaniacs? Certainly. While it’s true some predecessors in the disparate rebel groups made poor judgment calls regarding the age of consent, as an Alliance it has been agreed that if we do not stand up for our principles, we stand for nothing. There’d be no point to us, no way to return to rule by consent of the governed. That means if you wish to go home, we will bring you home, wherever your home may be.” 

“I don’t have one of those.” 

“We can help you search for them.” 

“Are you deaf?” 

It’s almost a relief to hear her sound like a proper teenager. “It is an offer, one you’re welcome to decline. You are also welcome to leave at any time. I don’t know how else I can make it any more clear that you are not our prisoner and, really, are those manacles even slightly necessary anymore?” 

“You’re kicking me out?” 

“This is your choice, your choice alone. Honn did not free you from one master to turn you over to the next. To stay, I’m afraid you must choose the Alliance and not merely tolerate us in order to spite your master.” 

Elle’s mouth firms. Saying too much has shut her up. 

“But if you’ll have us, we will have you. You’re very welcome to stay.” She can’t help the twinge of smile. “And I admit, I am very curious about your industrious project.” 

Elle rolls her eyes but holds out her wrists for the manacles to be removed which Mothma obliges. “You chose to throw away Captain Honn’s life.” 

“Only vetted volunteers were permitted to participate,” Mothma repeats. 

Elle fixes her gaze upon Mothma. It was said Jedi could penetrate thoughts and maybe, before the collar, this child could. 

“I would like to call you a liar.” There’s a slight tremor to her voice. “But I suppose there’s no saving idealistic martyrs from themselves. But to me, it has to matter. It can’t mean nothing.” She taps the surface of the tablet she is working on. “I won’t let it.” 

“I do not doubt you.” Mothma stands. “I will leave you to your work. Our meeting has taken me from other duties I can no longer ignore, but I promise that when we land, I will see you settled personally.” 

She takes the manacles with her, catching a glimpse of the screen the girl is writing on. Codes, as usual. 

As if reading her mind, Elle says, “I’m not stupid. I won’t be giving you everything. You’ll have to keep me alive for more.” 

“The sentiment is understandable.” Rather, she understands why this sentiment would be held by an Imperial, but sees the futility in trying to explain it away at the moment. “Listen to the 1B and do try to get some rest.” 

Outside, she says to Devlinn and Jourland, “You’re still on duty. Keep a close watch on her.” 

“You think she might double-cross us?” 

“Given everything she’s been through? Unlikely, but not impossible. Make sure she doesn’t hurt herself.”


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 

Shortly thereafter, while she’s briefing the generals of her mission’s success and instructing that Intelligence command be prepared for an in-depth meeting upon arrival, they have confirmation. Personnel from 312th and the 1470 are safe, though it’s a heavy loss of equipment, weapons, and tactical advantage. They need spies on the ground in the Imperil Capital now more than ever, but they have even less to work with than ever. 

Honn’s team is a loss. It was planned, but they’d had miracles for the past few weeks—for the past month. There is a place within her that’d had hope. They have the equipment. They can rebuild. Re-post the displaced personnel. 

It will not be the same because it never is. 

Hours later, the Imperial propaganda begins to flood the Holonet, touting a glorious victory against Rebel terrorist cells with no mention of their own losses. Without their usual spy network intact, it’s hard to know an exact count but based on what the sludge news drones picked up the Imperial casualties appear heavy. Signs pointing to 12-to-1 minimum or more. It doesn’t feel like enough. This is only the start of the road and they are years— _years_ —from any hope of a victory and < i >this is what doing well feels like. 

*** 

They take the longer, secure route back to Home One with two diversionary jumps as a precaution. This means that when Mothma joins Elle on the exit ramp, she has changed into clean, if oversized clothes. Her leg must have had a fraction or break, because it’s in a boot. No doubt, the boot and the cane she has been given to help her walk are part of the reason why she’s also wearing a deep scowl. 

There’s no use in offering an arm, so they exit together as their welcoming party approaches. 

“Oh, good.” Mothma says to Elle. “Here’s Targeter. She is one of our leading intelligence operatives and I am most pleased to introduce you. Targeter, this is Elle Seven.” 

Targeter raises a pale eyebrow and silently hands Mothma a dove-grey cloth. “L7? CI-L7?” 

“It’s Elle,” Elle says, petulant and Mothma can’t help but smile. 

“Elle has time to choose a name,” she imparts to Targeter with gravity to make the message as clear as possible without insulting Elle. There will be time for debriefing later. To Elle she presents the cloth. “This is a gift for you.” 

At the very start of the Clone War, Mon Mothma’s grandmother had knit her the scarf out of highly prized comox fur. Soft, light, and warm, she sent it with a note she hoped it would keep her granddaughter warm in the cold of space. 

Elle’s hands are full. A cane in one, tablet in the other. So Mothma gestures—an offer to hold her cane at the same time. Elle hesitates but not for long. It may be Mothma’s imagination, but once Elle’s bright red hair and the collar around neck are covered, the scowl lifts. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Elle, but I’m afraid I can’t stay for long. There’s a big meeting I have to prepare for and Draven is on a tear.” Targeter winks. 

Mothma says, “I don’t mean to keep you waiting, Targeter. Thank you.” 

“Anytime, Ma’am. Welcome to Home One, Elle.” 

Elle nods, with a hereto uncharacteristic reluctance and accepts her cane back. 

“Come, Elle,” Mothma says, “let me show you to your quarters so you can rest a while. We have officers still arriving, so you will have some time to eat a good meal and sleep. But there is a walk ahead of us. Let me know if your leg bothers you.” 

“It won’t,” Elle says as she limps along beside. 

They draw looks along the way. The corridors are busy at the hour, so Mothma waits until they are in the quieter section for ranking diplomatic team members, past the security detail who hands Elle her room card. “We’re short on space, so you will have a roommate.” 

“Targeter,” Elle says. 

Mothma shouldn’t be surprised. “Yes. She is about your age, was raised with the Alderaanian royal family. You’re both in Intelligence work. And there are very, very few people I trust more.” 

There’s no doubt Elle understands what Mothma means. Targeter will be keeping an eye on her for the time being. No doubt, Elle will keep an eye on Targeter too. 

“I trust you are sensitive to the losses the few remaining Alderaanians are facing now?” 

Elle’s head snaps to attention, “I’m not stupid.” 

“Targeter has a half-sister. That is all that remains of her family. You may have noticed that I’ve not asked much of you, but I will ask that you be sensitive to this loss. And I know her well enough she will be sympathetic to yours.” 

Elle gives no reply, nor shows a flicker of emotion, so Mothma allows the girl to key open the door to her room. 

They step in and confusion splits Elle’s face. 

“I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty of having your affects delivered.” 

“My affects?” 

“Yes. Captain Honn did not have any close relatives and left her effects to your designation.” 

Elle tosses both the cane and data pad on the mattress and limps to the cabinet with all the assurance of one who knows what she will find, and finds it. 

With trembling fingers, the child touches the shoulder of the violincello. Heat from her hand mists the cold varnish over dark wood. 

“When you are ready, let the guard at the end of the hall know. We will wait for you.” Mothma lets herself out with, “And Elle? Welcome home.”


End file.
